


As Time Goes By

by anapiesn



Category: Iron Man (Comics), Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bruce Banner & Tony Stark Friendship, Bruce Banner Is a Good Bro, Domestic Avengers, Domestic Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Howard Stark's Bad Parenting, Italian Tony Stark, M/M, Maria Stark's A+ Parenting, Science Bros, Steve Rogers & Tony Stark Friendship, Steve/Tony if you squint really really hard, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:40:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23524762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anapiesn/pseuds/anapiesn
Summary: He's a futurist.But tonight, he's nothing more than a wistful man.___________A Tony centered one-shot, where his grieving is amicably interrupted by two of his fellow comrades in arms. Based off "As Time Goes By", the Casablanca/Sinatra version and "Resposta ao Tempo", by Nana Caymmi.
Relationships: Bruce Banner/Tony Stark, Howard Stark & Maria Stark & Tony Stark, Howard Stark/Maria Stark, Maria Stark & Tony Stark, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	As Time Goes By

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again. This is a sad little belated RDJ tribute for his birthday because I'm a fangirl. I should be embarrassed, but I'm not.
> 
> Some explanation is much needed: 
> 
> This takes place in between Iron Man 3 and Age of Ultron - so Steve and Bruce still have the tower as a night stay/home to come back to and so does Tony. However, in my mind, Steve doesn't know about Tony's parents, so that's a little canon - divergent. 
> 
> And speaking of canon: much of this is a mixture of the canon interactions Tony had with his father. There is a comic strip that exposes the mentioned scene in which Tony describes, which was the also the inspiration for this story, since RDJ has a very similar experience, except with pot. However, in Maria's case, it's all out of my head. 
> 
> I wanted to play a bit with Tony's whole ordeal of being a visionary, while trying to impersonate how much of that would cause him grief in his interactions with the world and loved ones. That's why the whole concept of time is personified (I have no idea if that came out confusing, but I really had to give it a go). 
> 
> Also, I have no clue how to make homemade tomato sauce or homemade spaghetti. It was all just a whim.

He’ a futurist, y’know. 

That fact is well known across the whole fucking universe right about now and even though he’s never been one to shy away from the spotlight, the magnitude of it all still makes him squirm. See, it’s because there’s this weight, this density to the concept that comes right along with having a very particular kind of relationship with time. His mindset is off. The rules in which he abides in the world have a whole different pace and a whole different rhythm. They are particular to him and only him, so loneliness? It’s a package deal.

He’s eight years old when he builds his first motor. 

He’s fourteen when he goes to college. 

Time has always been relentless with him, pushing him through and passing him by so much it hardly ever meant anything that his body hadn’t caught up with his mind. That should have meant the world, but nobody asked him. They asked his expertise on equations and strategies and numbers, but for some reason his heart’s opinion never seemed as needed. So he was ever changing, hyper speed thought processes past and present meaning too little when horizons before him expanded to infinity just before his eyes. 

Time laughs at him idly, because time does not stand still and so neither does he.

The waters boiling and there’s a faint humming of the piano. He puts ten tomatoes in the steaming pot and times it for one minute. 

It’s his mothers recipe and he’s glad he’d never brought it in himself to throw the old cooking book away, even after his otherwise infamous attempts in the kitchen. He doesn’t kid himself in to thinking he’s any good at it and because he’s very aware of his inaptitude, he reserves the homemade spaghetti with homemade tomato sauce for seldom days and seldom moods and his not so seldom loneliness. 

But the music is a good companion and never fails to bring peace to his racing mind. He sighs contentedly when he hears the familiar words steadily becoming louder in the empty kitchen. Any process of creating is soothing for him, even the one’s he’s wont to fail.

Also, music always makes him giddy. 

He continues his ministrations with an objective eye and he briefly wonders if that’s the reason why his cooking suffers. Maybe it lacks…inspiration? If that’s so, maybe he should try something different…

But, no.

He’s a futurist, but not tonight. 

Tonight he’s just a wistful man. He sticks to his mother’s old, worn out recipe.

The song is making him sway a little and hum it out with a fond rumble of his throat. He pauses very briefly to pour some more of the very expensive wine by his left in to his also very expensive glass. “Do you smile to tempt a lover, Mona Lisa…”. The wine smells fruity and tastes fruitier. He likes it. It’s a bit sweeter than his usual palate, but sweets are a guilty pleasure of his anyway. Only Pepper and Jarvis know about his secret Baci chocolate stash on the mini fridge in his room, and maybe in the cookbook there’s the recipe for the passion fruit and chocolate mousse he used to love as a child… He won’t be able to make it since he’s not even sure there are any good passion fruit in America, so that’s that. For dessert, the sweetest wine and the secret Baci stash will have to suffice for the night.

The memories of Howard’s cold voice that used to grunt that men shouldn’t have that much of a sweet tooth is a distant broken record, and he purposely, metaphorically, gives Howard his middle finger and decides to block it out. Makes a decision that tonight he’ll eat all the Baci to his heart’s content and tomorrow he’ll figure out where to get some passion fruit. His gluten-free diet can be put on stand by for a day or two. 

Time cruelly taunts him because time goes on, but his aches do not. 

“JARVIS, be a doll and look up where I can get the best passion fruit and if any of those places are open tonight so I can have it picked up -“ 

“I didn’t know you could cook.” 

“Jesus Christ - what the fu -“ 

He’s used to being startled because it’s a collateral damage to years of being afraid of breathing in your own damn house, but he still fumes when he does it in front of one of the others. He thanks the entity he doesn’t believe in that it’s Bruce and he guesses the music must have been louder than he thought. Either way, the tower is humongous so nobody should have been able to hear his ministrations in the kitchen. The other scientist’s eyes have an amused glint which makes him assume he probably hadn’t disturbed the man, but a faint pang of guilt still stabs him in the gut. 

“Give a guy a warning, won’tcha?” He’s composed again, continuing his endeavour to make homemade pasta and he loves Bruce, he really does, but he’s in no mood to make nice. So he turns his back to him to prove a point, keeping his focus on the food before him and not in the embarrassment creeping from behind his neck.

The other man chuckles very lightly and comes closer though, and Tony is even kind of suspicious about it because Bruce isn’t one to simply impose his presence and as gentle as it was, that is was what he did. His flannel sleepwear is a sharp contrast to Tony’s slacks and white button up. Vaguely, he wonders if Bruce will judge he had yet to shower and it’s one in the morning, but in his defence he’s wearing the good body spray and his cologne is top of the line and that just means he smells nice for the -

“Sorry, it just took me by surprise. Wouldn’t have pegged you for a chef.” The man has that sad smile in his face and Tony always wondered why was it that those smiles looked so much like a forlorn wiped out picture.

He guesses it’s because it’s faded on the edges. 

He went back to kneading the dough because he’ll be damned to bring his moment to a halt just because his emotional range is directly proportionate to the volume of liquor in his body. He’s a grown ass man and his tomato sauce will be ready in one hour and he’s staying put because he funds this place goddamnit and he wants to use the kitchen in peace.

He offers Bruce a small smile, a tug of his lips upwards really, before sipping more of his wine and focusing on the task at hand. 

“Really not. Actually, I’m the epitome of utter disgrace in the magic that is cooking and therefore should be banned for all eternity. But this is the only thing I can make that’s actually edible so…” 

Bruce has taken a seat across from him in the island in the kitchen, where he’s kneading the dough and Tony keeps a straight face. 

“Hey, homemade pasta is pretty impressive. You’re even making the spaghetti yourself.” The doctor took his glasses away for a moment and wiped it on the hem of his shirts. 

Tony fights off the knot of sheepish discomfort and prowls on. 

“Was the music too loud or…?” If Bruce can sense any of his uneasiness he’s doing a good job of hiding it. 

“No! No, please, it’s just…I was having trouble sleeping so I came down for some tea and well…It smelled really nice.” He shrugs and smiles a bit more and Tony gives a little snort of appreciation. “I like the tunes too.” Bruce finishes.

“Who says tunes?” 

“Don’t bully me, I’m an old nerd.”

His smile is a bit wider now because he really does love Bruce and because he isn’t wont to judge nor be unsympathetic to unusual and troubled sleeping patterns. Bruce is one of his favourite people but he knows better to just up and say that out loud in the odd chance that Rhodey might hear. 

“Is this a special occasion?” Bruce asks in a mellow tone.

Tony skilfully puts the the dough in the pasta maker and pointedly avoids the other man’s gaze.

“Can’t a man indulge in his Italian cravings?” He doesn’t stop manoeuvring the handle and sips more of his wine.

Bruce gives a thoughtful “humn” and Tony holds out the bottle for him with an idle hand, silently questioning, and he’s surprised the other man accepts it and stands to make his way over the kitchen’s island and grab himself a glass. The doctor fills it and pours some more in to Tony’s. If, like his uneasiness, Bruce had caught on to his evasion, he was kind enough to let it go.

They are both in amicable silence for a pristine moment and all previous discomfort or territorial urges that had settled in Tony are rapidly dissolving. He is comfortably humming once more, carrying on to dump the new spaghetti on to the boiling water. Bruce has just begun to hum himself, a fist cradling his head and fingers fiddling with his glass. There is nothing but deep deep peace enveloping them both and it brings a warmth in to Tony’s grieving heart.

The Manhattan night sky is a beautiful contrast to the yellow-ish tint of the tower’s common room. The kitchen really does smell nice. He makes a point to take in all of this and savour it because he knows better by now than to take quiet moments like these for granted.

And maybe he was looking for solitude tonight, but it seems the universe had planned something different altogether. So he’s resigned. 

Time is known for dimming relationships, so maybe he’ll ignite something this evening, out of spite.

“Tonight is my mother’s birthday.” 

“I’m…sorry, am I interrupting?” 

And that’s when Steve comes in. Because time always messes back, and since he’s intent to dwell in bittersweet memories, the universe played an ironic joke.

Tony splutters for a bit and I t doesn’t go unnoticed by him that Bruce cocked his head in amusement at his flabbergast. 

He’s a futurist but there’s a whole lot of unprecedented, untimely shit going on tonight. 

“I’m sorry, I just - “

“No, please, it’s -“

Bruce laughs a bit and gestures to Steve “No Steve, it’s alright. You weren’t interrupting.” Tony’s kind of glad Bruce jumped in because he can’t seem to get a grip, so he turns to the pots in the stove to pretend he is making sure everything’s alright. “We’re having a glass of wine, do you want some?” He hears Bruce asks.

Tony turns his head skeptically at Bruce because the man is just full of surprises tonight. 

It’s his wine, damnit.

“I don’t mean to intrude.” Tony hates Steve’s eyes because they’re always sad. They’re beautiful, so damn pretty, but they’re always so damn sad that it makes him want to punch him. Or knock him over, pull his hair, hug him tight, kiss him silly, anything to get a rise out of that man because all that sadness in his eyes gives him the heebie-jeebies.

Besides, in hindsight, that man is a poster child for longing the past, so he may just be the perfect companion.

“Come on, Rogers. Tonight’s a homage.” He gestures around him to prove a point and gives Steve a lazy grin. He notices Bruce is still smiling but now he’s looking up at him, so Tony makes a dramatic squint in his direction before proceeding to get another glass out for Steve, whilst also taking one more bottle out of the compartment by the fridge. “Just don’t ask me to change, y’know, my tunes.” 

He hears Bruce laugh and it’s nice.

As a child he hated seeing anybody sad, he remembers that much. It made him sick to see anyone he cared about (Jarvis and his mom, because that was the extent of his social range back in the day) being miserable so he usually got too caught up in his worry and tended to be a sympathetic crier. That’s usually when Howard would come up and grab him by the shoulders, gripping it with just that smidge of unnecessary force and say “Stark men are made of Iron.”

Tony Stark should be proud to say he doesn’t cry easily, if ever. He’s shed tears for the loss of his mother eons ago, cried himself to sleep and let it all out that gloomy night, but never again. He hasn’t the faintest clue if Pepper ever saw him cry. He screamed and cringed and suffered, but few tears escaped his eyes in Afghanistan. He should be proud. He’s made of Iron. 

But he’s not proud because time always whispers tauntingly in his ears that it burns bridges; time can not go back, so neither can he. 

He’s a futurist, but he wants to cry tonight because he misses his mother and somehow he can’t shed a single tear.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Steve cuts him from his melancholic musings and he’s glad of it. Tony’s just finished pouring the other man’s glass and he’s still surprised by both of them being so open to drinking at one in the morning with him on a Tuesday, of all days. “My condolences…For Maria.” There’s a noticeable discomfort in Steve’s tone and he faintly shifts in his feet before taking a seat next to Bruce, also across from where Tony’s standing. Tony can sense the comment is charged with empathy than anything else and because of that he indulges in the company.

“Thanks.” He mutters, lowly.

There’s another moment of contemplative silence, until Steve breaks it with a surprised look on his face. “I love this song.” He says, and there’s the flicker of…something behind those stoic blue eyes that makes Tony’s heart soften a bit.

“She loved it too.” And she really did. It replayed constantly on their piano, especially when he was home. “Whenever I was a brat, she’d play it.” 

Tony goes back to the pots now, and notices that there’s only 20 more minutes before dinner’s ready. He stops to wonder if the other two men are actively waiting to eat with him and suddenly there’s a bit of insecurity in the pit of his stomach. He glances at the contents before him and tries to focus on the smells to pinpoint if there are any needs for alteration. He’s never done this for anyone else. He brings a clean spoon to the sauce and tastes it. He’s followed the recipe precisely and efficiently, but…He grabs the bottle of wine and pours a bit on the sauce, out of inspiration and because he’s rebellious like that.

He’s a futurist, y’know.

There’s a vague and faint memory of his mother laughing at him and advising care in his thirst of the world because she’s afraid he’ll drown one day. But she’d follow with a whisper “however, some things are fundamentals: wine never fails to make people less insipid, food less bland and when time comes knocking on your door, only a fine glass of wine will give you your best retort.”

He smiles.

And pours just a bit more.

“That’s kind of nice, actually.” Bruce points out. “It suits you.” The doctor is back to fiddling with his glass. 

“It does?” He’s curious now. 

“Yeah…” Steve cuts in, and now Tony’s intrigued. He turns back to the odd pair behind him, content to let the food finish cooking itself. “Moonlight and love songs, never out of date…Hearts full of passion…” Steve drawls on a light hearted sing-a- long and Tony feels his eyes widen and his chest tighten. 

“Jeaulousy and hate…” Bruce joins him sombrely, a resigned narrative of the words instead of actual singing. “Woman needs man and man must have his mate…” They let their voices carry on a bit more and Tony falls back on the counter in bewilderment, hands crossing across his chest while he observes the pair that is singing so so quietly, so idly but so so…compassionately. “That no one can deny….”

“It’s still the same old story…A fight for love and glory.” Tony’s surprised to find his eyes are out of focus and looking downward and it’s his voice that’s carrying on. “A case of do or die….” There is a raspy and deeper quality to his singing, a contrast to Steve's own soft voice and Bruce’s mellow tone.

“The world will always welcome lovers….as time goes by…” They finish together, solemnly, sombrely and lazily.

And while he contemplates the melody, he looks over at Steve. His physical prowess is securely hunched over, eyes cast to his glass and mind forlorn. “Your mother must have been a very wise woman.” The soldier says and takes his eyes away from the wine in front of him to look at Tony squarely, blue meeting brown courageously because it’s Steve and Steve never does anything without courage. 

“She was.” He admits and his voice is soft-spoken, in a way normally reserved to his lonely ears. 

Bruce holds his glass up, just as the lyrics start back up again and Tony’s heart is suddenly a tempest with something that was dormant for so many years. The scientists eyes wander between the darker haired man and Steve and with his glass upwards, and he nods his head in a silent questioning.Steve brings up his own and they wait for Tony.

Tony breaks out of his stupor and takes a tentative step forward. Then another one. 

They clink their glasses and Bruce says: “To Maria.”

He imagines bitterly that time must be reeling with displeasure. Because Tony’s will miss his mother but he won’t deign to let her memory fade.

Time is known for dimming relationships, but tonight they’ve ignited something. And there’s a satisfied taste in his mouth. 

“Play it again, Sam?” He asks Steve, and he’s surprised by the other mans amused laugh. Steve points a finger at Tony with a smile on his lips and a twinkle in his eyes. 

“I understood that reference.”

Tony himself gives a sharp laugh and Bruce snorts. 

He plays the song one more time and where once rested a deep feeling of displacement, there is a hopeful flutter. He is not naive nor is he easily deceived, but there is this very sweet quality in the moment, and he’s content to know that time may not move backwards, but he has the ability, the heart and the humanity to make a comfortable moment extend a little bit longer.

They exchange in quiet conversation, some few casual words thrown discreetly across the room, while they await for dinner. Tony turns to Steve in his usual disregard for subtly: “I’m surprised you joined us. I’m glad, even.” He admits, and there is care and trepidation in his tone, but there is also blunt honesty because even though he’s engulfed by sweet content, he’s still a bit wary of Rogers. “Didn’t even know you liked wine, actually. Figured you were more… of a beer and whiskey, y’know, type of guy.” 

Steve responds casually “Yeah…I understand. Just like I thought you’d be able to burn water.” He smirks.

Tony shrugs with an amused smile and Steve continues: “I was feeling….lonely.” Now it’s Steve turn to shrug, eyes distant but otherwise fond. “I was headed to the gym, but heard voices. Thought maybe best to turn on my heel, but…Well, the songs.” There’s an inflection in his tone that does not go unnoticed by Tony nor Bruce, and they nod. 

“Besides, it smells real good.” He finishes, and his bewildered expression makes Tony squint unappreciatively. 

“I’m starting to take offense to this much of a surprise. It’s really hard to mess up spaghetti.” 

“By the way, is it ready yet? I’m starving.” Bruce quips excitedly, albeit quietly, his lips faintly tainted with wine. 

Tony looks at his watch and rolls his eyes. 

“Five more minutes, Jolly Green. By the way, be fairly prepared for it to be awful. It’s really hard to mess up spaghetti but I’ve managed to ruin omelette, so…” 

“How’d you learn to do any of this?” Steve asks and Tony’s taken a bit by surprise. Not for the question in itself, but for the memory of it, so deep in his unconscious he had somehow…moved past it. 

Like he always does with matters of the heart. 

His mind maybe racing, but his heart was still stuck in those sweet baby steps.

“My dad used to batter me for not being very…Manly.” And he winces, because why in God’s name is he confiding this to the very epitome os manhood his father continuously compared him to? 

He hasn’t the faintest clue. 

“So once, while he was having himself some bourbon after my mother’s party, he pushed his glass up to my face and told me to drink it. Said it would make my chest hair grow.” He was avoiding their gaze, but now he’s not. He’s thought better of it and moves to stand a bit taller, a bit straighter. 

Because, you see, tonight he’s not a futurist. He’s not a visionary, nor a genius. He’s a wistful, longing man, that misses his mother just so much and he won’t deign to be ashamed of his past nor his feelings. He will not deny his life, his experiences and memories for anybody because time will knock on his door all damn day, with incessant turmoil, pushing him and berating him to keep up a very, very lonely pace.

But the thing is: time may encircle him with loneliness and cruel taunts, sentencing him to a life of displacement, but he knows, he knows: it will always be mindful to observe him suspiciously, trying to learn from him how long his loving heart will beat on while still missing so much, just how many times he can die and still come to life with roaring determination: his mind maybe centuries advanced, but his heart is still oh so young. 

So many have confused his objective nature for uncaring but he laughs so much inside because so many were all so so blind. He is fuelled by creativity, by inspiration and by infinity and there is a huge difference in to being cold and combusting with energy that just some real special things would make him pay attention. 

Time seethes and gnaws with envy because the fact is, time is known to quell passion, but Tony, Tony is incendiary. 

And he knows better. Knows the value of burning yourself with life rather than to wither away with long age. He knows which he’ll choose every time. He’ll burst, but he will not wither. 

He’ll learn and learn and learn, and he’ll be better than any of the shit people throw at him. He’ll work all through the night with coffee in his veins, giving everything he has because he’s resilient. It’s go big or go home, it’s all so huge and never ever discreet. He’ll create and plot, twist and turn; he’ll fume with imagination and maddening new ideas and always remember that as time goes by, one of the real fundamentals of his life is that he sees beyond time itself.

So fuck it all, he’s so much more than time itself. 

He’s so much more than the shadow of a man. 

“I was six.” He finishes, with purpose.

He can see their eyes widening, Steve’s lips tightening and Bruce’s disapproving nod and scoff of displeasure, but he won’t stop now. 

He’s six when he has his first drink, he’s almost eleven when he first scrapes his knee (and it’s not from playing with friends, it’s from running from bullies in his boarding school) and he’s sixteen when he has his first kiss, which is also the first time he has sex, and he still smells the bile in his throat because he was way too drunk. He’s tired of time knocking down his door and walls and hurrying him up. Tonight he’s gathering the reigns and he’s staying put. He’s having a glass of wine and he’s going to go all out, because that’s the only way it ever really goes with him. His mother was right, one day he’ll drown from his thirst of the world. 

Let his infant heart grow just a bit tonight. 

The timer goes off. He turns off the stove. Grabs the colander and mixes the spaghetti and the tomato sauce. Plucks a few basil branches and throws it in. 

“So after I whined about the taste and cried and Howard…well, patronised me.” He scoffs here because some things are better left unsaid. “ Yeah, let’s go with that, my mother suggested he were to go to sleep - it always amazed me how she did that, y’know, make him realise his obnoxiousness and demanding he leave her alone by subtly ordering to go to sleep.” He dwells on the past with a unfazed mask, but he’s sure they both understand by now that there is something burning inside him. 

“She took me by the hand, put some record on and proceeded to teach me how to make homemade pasta. Taught me this exact recipe, while playing most of these…tunes.” At this, he snorts a bit to soften the story. Once again, Bruce chuckles and once again he’s glad. 

Steve just looks confused at them but it’s okay.

He dumps the content on to a big wooden bowl by the sink. Takes three black plates from the shelves and with kinship justice, divides the pasta on to each plate.

“She tried to cheer me up all through the rest of the night, even though she was probably tired from the party. I was excited because I had never stayed up that late. Then she asked me if I wanted to try some of her wine. It must have smelled better, so I guess I seemed interested, I don’t know. I tried it, but still made a face and she told me: there are some things only time will teach you to appreciate.” 

He pauses to give Bruce his plate, which the other man takes with a polite “Thank you.” He puts the other one in front of Steve, who is watching him with such an observant gaze he has to fight the urge to shield himself. “Pace yourself, she said, don’t let time trick you.”

“I didn’t, as you may have noticed.” 

He takes a seat in front of them.

He’s finished his reminiscing. Brings his forks up for a bite, while observing the pair in front of him. Both are eating quite contently, so he’s assuming it isn’t that bad.

Steve smiles at him with amusement, while wiping his face with a napkin. “Seems I was right, then.” Tony smiles back. There’s a moment of silence between the three of them and Tony’s peaceful. Only their chewing can be heard and the mellow jazz music on the background helps to ambiance this notch in his life. The spaghetti even tastes relatively good, so he’s mindful to once again, appreciate it all for what is it:

There is great power in memories, you see. They burn like him, they last in expansiveness and reaches out to whomever it can get a hold on. Memories are also time’s biggest rival because it’s unity and companionship and bonds that may even break, but will always be ever sharing. He may not last forever, but he’ll create things that will and he may not last forever, but he’ll live in other peoples memory and that in itself is something so, so much better. 

“After that, when I got older, she’d make this spaghetti every time I came home for the holidays. And even thought she loved her wine; once, she told me, very seriously, mind you: Boy, a good drink is only good when you have good company and good music to accompany it. Rest assured, it does not make your chest hair grow, it just makes you fat, so try to make it worth your while.” 

The pair in front of him are amused and smiling wryly. 

He gazes at his wine glass, and wonder if he gave a good enough answer to time’s imprisonment. Wonders just how much tonight has replaced distant sadness, since he’s feels he has set himself free. For once, time seems thoughtful enough to simmer down and let him enjoy companionship without any exhausting promises of tomorrow.

Steve is watching him, sullenly and Bruce is wiping his mouth. The, the doctor throws an amused look at his glass and there is a content smile in his lips.

“So all of this just to prevent us from making fun of your cooking, huh?” The doctor says, giving Tony the most apologetically, sorry not sorry face. 

Tony gives the loudest laugh of the night, while flinging his dirty napkin forcefully at Bruce, who dodges it with a quieter laugh of his own.

And Steve just reaches out for seconds.

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT: Hi! Since I didn't beta or anything, last night I got to re-reading the things and making some small adjustments, letting some things that I felt weren't really the way I wanted go a different direction. All in all, there aren't really any obvious edits, but I felt the need to explain anyway. I don't know if it's bad fanfic etiquette, but y'know, I really do feel better now! 
> 
> ___________
> 
> I really, really hope you guys enjoyed it! It's non beta'd so I probably just should have given it a rest before posting....but quarantine's got me living on the edge.
> 
> Oh, and I guessed Steve was around Casablanca when it was released (this is based on a fleeting research that said he went on the ice in 1945 and because he saw the Wizard of Oz).
> 
> Anyway, critiques/feedback are much appreciated.


End file.
